


The Slip

by resilient_rose



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resilient_rose/pseuds/resilient_rose
Summary: Patrick takes a hike. David learns first aid.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 16
Kudos: 90
Collections: Schitt's Creek Season 7





	The Slip

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSeason7](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSeason7) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> 7x05 - The Sniffles
> 
> This is the generic, catch-all prompt for all things related to hurt/comfort, angst, illnesses, and injuries. Claim this prompt if you have an idea for a work that doesn't fit any of the other 7x05 prompts.

“Do you have to do this _now_?”

David's leaning on the doorframe in their bedroom, watching Patrick stuff a jacket into his hiking pack. It's their date night, but Patrick decided to go on a hike, citing the sunny weather and the new boots he wants to break in.

“It’s supposed to snow for the rest of the week,” Patrick reminds him. “Look at it out, David.”

“Yes, it’s very pretty, but--”

Patrick glances up, smirking. “You could come with me."

David gestures in annoyance. “You could stay here!”

“I won’t be back late, gotta beat the sunset,” says Patrick, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So if you aren't coming, maybe you could make dinner and pick a movie.”

“ _Fine,_ " huffs David. "But if you’re a minute late--”

Patrick interrupts him with a kiss as he leaves the room. “I won’t be.”

He disappears down the stairs and David sighs as the front door clicks shut. 

"Don't die!" he yells, though he knows Patrick can't hear him.

***

Twenty minutes later, Patrick’s hiking on an icy trail, riddled with roots and rocks and other tripping hazards. It’s not the kind of trail he should hike alone, but he’s being careful. He takes his time on snowy patches, pauses to enjoy the crisp weather and the falling leaves, and sits by a frozen waterfall to drink some tea from his thermos. It’s getting dusky and harder to see, but he can’t resist lingering here to stare at the sky -- he doesn’t get out much anymore, not with the business expanding.

He packs up his thermos as the sun slips beyond the trees. He has an emergency flashlight and he’s almost to the car, so he isn’t worried about daylight.

David told him he’d become a cautionary tale if he keeps hiking alone. He can’t wait to get home -- uninjured, not mauled by a bear, not taken captive by a forest-dwelling psychopath -- and give David the _look_. But that doesn’t play out. 

He’s trekking down the most technical part of the trail, a cliff on the right and a pond on the left, when a rock slides under his foot, loose from the last storm. 

He’s tumbled before -- plenty of times between baseball, hiking, his rowdy cousins; he knows it happens in an inescapable flash, knows all he can do is brace for impact. But he’s never tumbled twenty feet into a pond.

He comes up spluttering. The water is so cold it’s almost hot, burning his skin, unbearable. He grabs the bank and hauls himself out, unsure how he has the strength or clarity to do so, and pushes himself to his feet. He snatches his backpack out of the water and digs out a space blanket. Then he hunches over, pain hitting him like a heatwave. Everything hurts -- he’s covered in scrapes and bruises from rolling down the rocky bank -- but his ankle is fucked. He tore a tendon or broke it or... _this is bad_.

He clenches his teeth, shivering, and finds his phone. It’s dead from being submerged. Of course. He has to hike out of here -- has to, if he stays he’ll freeze to death -- and he’s pretty sure his ankle is not about to let him do that.

_You cannot die out here. David will kill you. Just hike out. It’s only a mile. You can hop a mile. Just a mile._

He’s not sure how he pulls himself up the bank, wrapped in the emergency blanket, and finds the trail; he has no idea how he limps the rest of the way, bracing himself on trees, wincing and yelping in pain, but he does. 

He gets into his car after forty minutes. It’s fully dark. He’s so cold he’s shaking, and he’s shaking so hard he drops his keys when he puts them in the ignition; he finally gets the car on, the heat blasting, and he leans back, gripping the side of his seat. The pain in his ankle is worse than it was when he first noticed it; it’s throbbing and climbing up his leg, making him nauseous. 

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay, Patrick. You can do this. Just drive.”

He breathes out hard and tries to picture David. He’s probably standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of red wine with a look of cosmic annoyance. Or maybe he’s pacing, calling for the twentieth time, wondering why his husband isn’t picking up. Patrick doesn’t care that he’ll never live this down; he just wants to be in David’s arms again. 

He puts the car in drive, works the gas and the brakes with his foot that isn’t mangled, and starts toward town.

***

David calls Patrick another time, teeth clamped together. Voicemail again. His next call is the police. He knows they’ll laugh him off the phone. _Your husband is 30 minutes late? Wow, better call in the feds._ He knows they won’t understand that he’s 30 minutes late for _date night_ , that his phone is going straight to voicemail, that this is too unlike him not to mean something. Fucking solo hikes. David’s putting an end to those after this, even if he has to go with him -- well, no, but he’ll blackmail Stevie or Ronnie or Roland into becoming his hiking buddy. He’ll get Patrick a hypoallergenic service dog. He’ll equip him with Life Alert or hire a bodyguard. He doesn’t care. He’s not going through another night of _did he fall off a cliff did he encounter a bear did he get kidnapped did he eat a poison mushroom did he--_

His car pulls in the drive. David puts his phone down, huffing. No, apparently he’s fine, just late. The nerve. They skipped date night last week for inventory and now he does _this_? Then he sees Patrick get out of the car and knows something’s wrong. Patrick stumbles, holding himself up on the hood, then falls by the front wheel.

David almost throws his wine in his rush to help him. He runs through the front door and kneels by him, hands all over him to check that he’s whole, eyes wide at his appearance. His face is scraped up and bruised; he looks dizzy and dazed.

“Oh my God, honey, what--”

“Mm kind of fell.”

David’s eyes flash. Why does he sound drunk? He shouldn’t sound drunk. God, did he hit his head? How did he drive here?

“What?” he whispers, frantic. “What do you mean?” 

He puts his hand on Patrick’s leg, about to continue, but Patrick wrenches forward and moans in pain.

“Not -- don’t -- leg.”

David pulls his hand away, staring at his leg; he notices his ankle is at an odd angle and looks away immediately. He doesn’t do blood and he definitely doesn’t do busted joints.

“What the fuck?” he demands.

“David, just get me inside…”

David nods, breathing in, and helps him to his feet. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning his full weight on David, and they stumble into their house together. 

“Why are you wet?” 

“Fell down a ditch. In a pond. Think I broke my ankle."

“Oh my God,” says David, panting with the effort it takes to keep him up. “Okay, sit here, I’ll call an ambulance--”

“No,” groans Patrick. 

“Patrick, I’m calling an ambulance!” he shouts, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“Get me a blanket first…”

David eyes him; he’s worried and terrified and ultimately sympathetic, but he’s also _deeply_ annoyed. Not annoyed that Patrick is late or that he’s injured. Annoyed he’s in this position, which he’s utterly unprepared for, annoyed that if _he_ was hurt, Patrick would know exactly what to do. He shifts Patrick onto the couch, then hurries upstairs for the thickest blanket he can find, calling 911 on the way.

“Operator, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, hi, my husband just broke his ankle and also fell in a pond and I think he has hypothermia--”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes! He’s just…” David pauses, yanking a comforter from the linen closet. “He’s in a lot of pain!”

“Alright sir. I need you to do something for me. Do you have a thermometer?”

“Yes?”

“Okay. Find that. Is your husband with you?”

David finds a thermometer in their bathroom, then hurries back downstairs. Patrick is hunched on the couch, shivering and holding his ankle. David softens, chest aching, and sits beside him to rub his back.

“Yes, he’s right here…”

Patrick glances up, looking at the phone. 

“Okay,” the operator says, “now check his temperature and let me know.”

David sets the phone aside and puts it on speaker, then lifts Patrick’s chin and thumbs the side of his head. 

“Okay honey, just…”

“Yes, David, I know how to do this.”

Patrick puts the thermometer under his tongue and they wait, both quiet. David tugs it out of his mouth the second it beeps.

“96.7!” he reports. “What does that mean?!”

“Okay,” says the operator. “That temperature is a little low but it’s perfectly safe. Do you have any Advil, Tylenol, anything of the sort?”

“Obviously!” says David, annoyed.

“Alright. I’d suggest you give him some of that, then drive him to the nearest walk-in clinic, which is in Elmdale. It opens tomorrow at 8. I can help you with directions if you’d like.”

“He broke his ankle!” 

“Yes, but this number is for emergencies, like heart attacks, or childbirth. You take care now. Call back if anything changes.”

The line goes dead. David stares at his phone in disbelief, then looks at Patrick.

“What the fuck?”

Patrick sighs. “She’s right, David…told you not to call--”

“Patrick. You fell off a cliff, into a pond, you’re covered in bruises, God knows what kind of internal bleeding you have, you broke your ankle then _walked on it_ then _drove home_ and you’re slurring your speech and--”

“It just really hurts. It really hurts, David, that’s all--”

“I’m calling back--”

Patrick puts his hand on his arm. “David, hon, c’mon…” He leans back, closing his eyes. “Just get me some medicine.”

David rolls his eyes and marches upstairs. He nabs a bottle of pain meds from the neighboring medicine cabinet. He’ll kill Patrick eventually. Really, he will, he’ll finally snap when Patrick suggests they go snowshoeing or tornado-chasing or deep-sea diving--

“David!” 

“I’m _coming_!”

But he stops at the top of the stairs and ducks into their room, grabbing the warmest sweater, pants, and socks he can find. Then he rushes back and finds Patrick swaying softly, humming a familiar song, thumbing his ankle.

“Mm, David. Bad. This is bad.”

“Yes! I know!” David hurries to his side and kneels by him. “Take one of these, it’s what you took when you did whatever to your whatever last season.”

“Tore my ACL.”

“ _That_. And...you need to get those clothes off.”

“Mm not happening--”

“I know this might come as a shock,” says David. “But I’ve seen you naked before.”

Patrick almost laughs. “No. Just. Not happening because how do I…” 

He gestures at his ankle and David pops his brows, getting up again. “I’ve always wanted to cut your bargain-bin jeans up and it seems the universe has handed me that opportunity--"

“David, no…”

“Oh, _yes_ , you’re going to freeze to death.”

He coughs and sits forward, nodding. David helps him out of his jacket and his sweater, then falters. He’s covered in nasty bruises and a gash on his chest is oozing blood. David touches his hand to his side, mouth trembling open. 

“Patrick,” he murmurs, thumb slipping over one of his ribs. 

Patrick shakes his head. “I know.”

David closes his eyes to collect himself. “Okay. Okay honey, just, let me get you water, are you any warmer?”

“Not really, David.”

“How did you -- never mind.” He gets up. “Stay there.” 

He ducks into the kitchen for a pair of scissors and some water and hurries back to kneel by Patrick. He’s about to ask why Patrick didn’t call him, why he didn’t call for help, when he remembers his phone going to voicemail.

It must have died in the water, Patrick must have realized he had to make it back to his car with a broken ankle, soaking wet, in winter…

He’s staring again. Patrick grips his shoulder, then shakes it, almost crying. 

“David!”

“Okay, okay!” he says, very soft, fighting tears too; he always cries if Patrick cries. “Okay, here, just…” He sniffles and shakes a pill into Patrick’s hand, then hands him the water. “Take this, let’s get you warm…”

Patrick tips the pill back and David spends the next ten minutes getting him out of his wet clothes -- not an easy task, especially with Patrick digging his nails into his arm every few seconds, but soon Patrick’s bundled in a new sweater, buried under a blanket, wearing double socks on the foot that he let David touch. David’s out of breath, hair falling out of place on his forehead, hugging Patrick from the side.

He’s still shivering.

“Can I make you soup?” David murmurs.

Patrick nods and David glances at him, relieved he’s willing to eat something. He nods in response, kissing the side of his head, and goes into the kitchen. 

He browses their cupboards for soup, moving several cans of cream of bacon (his usual pick) to find red-pepper tomato, Patrick’s favorite. He pauses, reflecting on how responsible and conservative Patrick usually is. He gets up at 6; emails never pile up; he pays bills on the day they arrive; he calls his mom weekly on Saturday; he buys his shirts in bulk. Maybe he has to fall off a cliff occasionally to offset all that. 

David rubs his face and puts the soup in a pot, then takes a moment to slug a glass of wine and text Alexis. He might be Patrick’s husband, but he’s not doing this alone.

_DR, 7:49: Patrick broke his ankle and fell in a pond_

_DR, 7:49: so that’s what I’m dealing with_

_DR, 7:49: how’s_ **_your_ ** _night going?_

_AR, 7:50: Ew David!_

_AR, 7:50: A pond??_

_DR, 7:50: yes and apparently he limped all the way back to his car and drove here? am I married to Jason Bourne??_

_AR, 7:50: I mean, maybe?!_

_AR, 7:50: so he actually_ **_broke_ ** _his ankle?_

_DR, 7:50: I don’t know? The ambulance wouldn’t come_

_AR, 7:50: omg rude!! so the way you tell if an ankle is broken is that you can’t put any weight on it and it might go numb._

_DR, 7:51: do I want to know?_

_AR, 7:51: so once in the Maldives, Ariana’s bf slipped off the hotel balcony and we couldn’t call anyone, obvi, he was supposed to be in rehab but he was on mushrooms so we like, DIYed it_

_DR, 7:51: You fixed a broken ankle?_

_AR, 7:51_ : ✨ _yes I did_ ✨

The soup starts to simmer so he turns it down and drinks more wine.

_DR, 7:51: I’m calling you_

_AR, 7:51: kk_

_AR, 7:51: wait why?_

_DR, 7:51: because you’re about to DIY this_

He dishes up some soup with sour cream and returns to the living room. Patrick looks at him, immediately skeptical, and frowns.

“Why do you look like that?” he mumbles

“Hi,” says David brightly, kneeling by him. “So the ambulance isn’t coming and you need help.” He takes out his phone and facetimes Alexis; she answers, walking down what looks like 8th, beaming with bright red lips. He gestures in annoyance. “You said I could call!”

“You’re fine, I have like, _three_ full minutes before I get to this little bistro, my _neighbor_ asked me out, isn’t that cute--”

“David, what are you doing?” Patrick mumbles.

“Alexis, it turns out, has fixed a broken ankle before!”

Patrick shifts away. “Yeah. David, I love you both, but that is not happening…”

“Relax,” says Alexis, dodging a taxi. “So, what you want to do--”

“David!” Patrick says, like their 14-year-old daughter is asking for a back tattoo. “Not happening!”

Alexis ignores this. “--is check if you can see any bone.”

“Eugh!” David exclaims, jumping back. “No! No bone!”

“Great,” says Alexis, thanking a man who opens the door to a bistro for her. “So now, Patrick?”

“Not participating in this,” he replies.

“Okay,” she says, unfazed. “Tell me what hurts more--”

Patrick stares at him. “David!”

David gestures, unsure what else to do. “She knows how to do this!”

“I do,” Alexis agrees. “So David, like, _lightly_ touch the bony thing on the outside of his ankle…”

“This?” he asks, thumbing it.

Patrick grips the side of the couch and swears.

“Now move up to the tendon-thingy?” she tells him, grinning as someone takes off her coat. She tilts the phone to reveal a tall man in a turtleneck. “This is Andre, by the way--”

“Alexis!” David snaps. “Focus!”

“I’m helping my brother fix his husband’s broken ankle,” Alexis tells her date, shimmying and holding up a finger. “Two seconds. I’ll take a mimosa--”

“Alexis!”

“God, David!” she huffs, throwing her hair over her shoulder as she walks down a hall. “Okay, so which is worse, the tendon-thingy or the bone?”

“Um, based on how he jumped, the thingy,” says David, glancing at Patrick as he glares at him.

“Okay,” says Alexis, nodding. “So he probably sprained it--”

“No,” says Patrick flatly.

“Sprains can be _just_ as painful,” says Alexis, pouting to show solidarity. “I remember when Dad fell down the stairs and--”

“We aren’t talking about Dad right now!” David yells. “Keep going!”

“Okay,” says Alexis, going into the women’s room to reapply her lipstick. “So now you need to put ice on his leg. And wrap it. And elevate it. Think _RICE_. Rest, ice, compression, elevation.”

David turns the phone so he can shoot her a particularly indignant expression. “I could have Googled that, Alexis!”

“I figured out it wasn’t broken, David, God!”

“It’s definitely broken,” says Patrick.

David rolls his eyes and rubs his face. “My God. Okay.”

“Feel better, toodles!” yells Alexis, kissing them through the phone. 

David tosses the phone and glances at Patrick, who breathes out and shakes his head. David takes his face in his hands and gently kisses him.

“Are the meds working yet?”

“No, David.”

David nods. “Do we have an ice pack?”

Patrick pops his brows. “We did, until you got high one night and wondered what was in it and cut it open.”

David grimaces. “Mhm.” He shifts onto the couch and grabs his phone again, calling Stevie. He ignores Patrick’s stormy gaze, smiling at him as the line rings, and inhales in relief when she answers. “Hi!”

“Why are you...calling?” she mutters.

“Unclear!” he laughs. “Could have texted but I’m a little drunk, oh, and Patrick broke -- no, _sprained_ \--"

“Broke!”

“--his ankle, and we need an ice pack.”

“Okay. Do _not_ want to know how Patrick sprained his ankle at 8 p.m. on your date night.”

“Um, _that_ is vulgar and unacceptable,” says David. “He was hiking, Stevie. _Hiking_.”

“Is that code or…?”

“God! He was actually hiking! Would I prefer I fucked him so hard he broke his ankle? Yes! Is that what happened? No! So do you have a fucking ice pack?”

A pause. “Okay. I’m guessing you’ve had a very stressful night. So. I don’t have one, but I can buy one at Shop ‘n Save.”

“Yes, _yes_ , do that, and also get me chocolate chip ice cream--”

Patrick looks at him and mouths _unbelievable._ He puts a finger on Patrick’s lips.

“--and pistachio for Patrick.”

“Fine,” Stevie sighs, hanging up. 

David looks at Patrick, who softens slightly and snuggles into him, still shivering. David hands him his soup and spoon and he eats quietly for a moment. Then he glances up.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

“Did you want croutons?” asks David, regretting his earlier tone.

Patrick shakes his head, then leans on him, bracing his good leg on the coffee table. “It’s working a little…”

David nods, watching him for a moment. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Patrick shrugs over a bite of soup. “I just slipped. Bad spot to slip.”

“How -- how far did you fall? Because you look…” He wrinkles his nose. “A bit like Vivian circa Season 4 when she got trampled.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Twenty feet or so.”

David holds his breath, lifting his brows. “And then…” He gestures. “You fell into the pond.”

“Yeah. Should have known it was deep because it wasn’t frozen.”

David nods, chest growing tighter. “So you...you actually…”

“Went under? Yeah.”

“Mhm.” He reaches for his wine and motions with it. “In...in February.” 

Patrick looks at him and David's breath catches at the prominent scrape on his cheek. He gently thumbs it and studies Patrick’s expression, which is brave on the surface, but he knows better; he knows that slip was terrifying, that Patrick wondered if he’d ever make it home again. 

“So you climbed out?” he goes on, voice a bit rough with the effort it takes not to cry.

“Yeah, somehow,” says Patrick, taking another bite of soup. “I thought I was okay at first and then…” He glances at his ankle and gestures at it, frustrated. “Wonder if I’ll be able to play this season…”

David laughs, sniffling. Then he dips his head down and sobs. He shakes his head, bracing himself on Patrick.

“Don’t -- just --” He sucks a breath into his lungs. “Don’t. I’m sorry I’m…” He gestures at himself in apology, hand dancing to indicate how difficult he’s been. “You just. You could have died.”

Patrick hurries to set his soup aside and pulls David close. “Hey, no...no I’m right here…”

Now Patrick’s comforting him, as if he’s the one who’s hurt. He pulls away, swallowing, and takes both of Patrick’s hands. He sniffles hard and touches his head to Patrick’s, focusing on his warmth. He’s here. Here, safe, warm. A search team isn’t wandering the endless forest while David sits at home, holding Stevie like a lifeline. Somehow he thinks he’d know. He’d wait out the search knowing Patrick was gone and he’d--

“David.”

Patrick’s voice brings him out of his spiral. He breathes in.

“Just,” he says, voice wrecked. “What if your head hit a rock and…?”

“No what-ifs,” Patrick says gently. 

David inhales and nods, swallowing again. Then he brings Patrick into his arms, face tucked into his neck, and slowly thumbs his arm. 

They wake up like this often -- David hugging him from the side, Patrick sitting up, reading and drinking coffee while they wait for the sun to break. David knows he takes every morning for granted and suddenly he feels their earliest days together, the druggy relief of waking up by his new boyfriend, thinking _this is it_ , feeling thankful -- an emotion he’d never been capable of understanding before, let alone experiencing.

“I love you,” he says, hand on Patrick’s chest.

“I’m okay. I love you too, David…”

David presses his face harder into his arm and sniffles. “No, I love you so much--”

Someone knocks on their door because God forbid they have this moment alone. 

David gets up and stalks to answer it, wrathful. Twyla jumps back at his appearance, holding a pair of crutches. 

“So Alexis texted me,” she says, laughing nervously. “And said you might be able to use these. I kept them when I sprained _my_ ankle and Patrick and I are about the same size, so.” She thrusts them at David. “Keep them as long as you need!” Then she leans in. “What happened?”

“Hiking!” snaps David, wiping his eyes. “Hiking happened, Twyla!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes!”

She nods seriously. “One time my uncle--”

David holds a hand up, nodding with a pained smile. “Yes, yes, thank you, Twyla!”

She smiles. “Of course! Call if you need anything else!”

Then another car pulls in the drive -- Jocelyn and Roland -- and David tips his head back, succumbing to the cruel whims of the universe. Jocelyn jumps out of the truck and trots up to him with a casserole dish, while Roland ambles out like he’s not sure this is worth his time.

“David, we came as soon as we heard--”

“From who?” he asks, slightly hysterical.

“Twyla!” says Jocelyn, while Roland replies, “Bob!”

David closes his eyes to compose himself, then accepts the casserole.

“We _were_ on our way to Gwen’s,” says Jocelyn. “Her pastor ended things again and we thought this casserole might help, but…” She throws her hands up as if helpless. “We thought you needed this more right now. Is he okay? What happened?”

“David?” Patrick calls. 

“Oh, he’s up!” Jocelyn says, patting David’s arm and trying to come in.

“Okay, no,” says David, pushing her out. “Thank you, but no!”

Another car pulls up. At least it’s Stevie, dressed in a red flannel, hair in a tired bun. She gets out, frowning at the party-parking situation in their driveway, and meets David’s eyes from afar. He shakes his head, still smiling at Jocelyn, and she snorts. Then she hauls a Shop ‘n Save bag from her backseat and wades through the others. David lets her slip inside under his arm and yells at the others that Patrick needs sleep. They all nod, offering thumbs-ups and smiles of support, and depart.

Stevie catches David’s gaze as they go into the kitchen. She takes off her jacket, unveiling two pints of ice cream, ice packs, and some ACE-bandage.

“I got these,” she says, gesturing with two emergency ice packs. “You pop them and they get cold instantly, so you don’t have to wait. And some bandage in case you--”

“Stevie?” calls Patrick. “Is that Stevie? Hi, Stevie!”

David and Stevie hold still, meeting eyes.

“I _did_ give him some pain meds.”

Stevie nods, bottom lip dipping in a tiny, amused frown. “Right. So--”

Something crashes in the living room and the light goes out. Patrick hums. “Oopsie.”

David covers his face. “God."

“Have you been crying?” asks Stevie.

“No! Yes, just --”

“David, I knocked over a lamp!”

“He’s _probably_ trying to get up,” Stevie points out.

David hisses and hurries into the living room, where he finds Patrick half-up, steadying himself on a side table. He catches him before he stands up and pushes him back into his seat.

“No! Absolutely not!” He rights the lamp and turns on a different one. “You’re on couch arrest!”

“David,” says Patrick, very earnest, catching the hem of his sweater in his hand. “David, I’m hungry...”

“I’ll get you more food if you don’t move.”

Patrick nods. “I love you.”

“Okay,” David sighs, adding as he heads to the kitchen, “stay there!”

Patrick salutes him. He shakes his head and rejoins Stevie, who’s taken the liberty to pour herself a glass of wine and open a box of crackers.

“So how long has he been like this?”

“Oh, it _just_ kicked in, so enjoy,” says David, refilling his wine and pouring more soup. 

He sniffles and picks through some spices until he finds black pepper, waiting for Stevie’s inevitable remark.

“Why is it always you two?” she finally murmurs.

He turns. “Excuse me. It’s not _my_ fault my husband is accident-prone. If anything you should blame the Brewers and their fucked-up Viking DNA.”

She raises her brows. “Oh. Their _Viking_ DNA.”

David rolls his eyes and steals a cracker. “Apparently,” he says, crunching it, “Vikings landed in Ireland thousands of years ago. And his cousins are convinced they’re descended from them."

“I mean. Probably.” She eats another cracker and sips her wine, then nods into the living room. “Can I visit the patient now?”

“At your own risk,” says David. 

She nods, pretending to take this seriously, then goes into the living room. David creeps after her, concerned what Patrick will do or say. 

“Wow,” Stevie says to him. “So you look like hell.”

“Thanks,” he replies. “I’m not wearing pants.”

David covers his face, turning back to get Patrick’s soup. He puts a slab of Jocelyn’s casserole on a plate as well and returns to the living room to find Patrick holding Stevie’s hand, examining her nail polish like it’s a new concept. She looks at David, holding back laughter, and he shakes his head in utter defeat. Maybe he should have given Patrick a half dose. Okay, he _definitely_ should have done that, but he was in so much pain…

“How’s your ankle, honey?” he asks, setting down the food.

Patrick suddenly smiles. “You must have been really scared.”

David makes a face.

“Because you’re _honey_ -ing me.”

David huffs. “Okay.”

“And you only do that when you’re scared.” He turns to Stevie and adds, like she couldn’t hear him before, “He only does that when he’s scared. Or drunk.”

“He is drunk,” says Stevie, adding, “Are you done with my hand? Because I’d like it back.”

“Your hand is _really_ soft. Like. Softer than David’s. And he moisturizes.” 

“Okay,” says David, wrestling their hands apart. He shoves a fork into Patrick’s grip and offers him a plate of Dorito casserole. “Jocelyn made this--”

“Jocelyn is here?” he asks, excited.

“No, I sent her home--”

“Booo…”

Stevie glances at David, eyes wide and amused. “This is like having a toddler.”

“Yes. Except he’s 150 pounds and wants to sleep with everything that moves.”

“Mm just you, David,” Patrick says, then gasps, fork suspended. “David, how are we going to…?” he trails off, completing the thought with a rather rude hand signal. 

David’s eyes widen and he tries not to laugh. “Uh...my God!”

Stevie leans back, sipping wine. “You’ll just have to be _very_ gentle, David…”

“Yeah,” says Patrick, concerned. “He’s not good at that.”

Stevie frowns. “Not something I needed to know.”

“Didn’t you think so?” he asks her.

“Okay, I _try_ not to relive sleeping with him, so--”

Patrick turns. “David, you’re really not good at that.”

“Okay, _you’ve_ never complained--”

“Except at first. You were so sweet. You kept asking if I was okay and I was like, just fuck me, David.”

Stevie opens her mouth in a perfect, delighted _O._

“Okay, _this_?” says David. “This is why you can’t be in public when you’re high.”

“This isn’t...public, this is...Stevie…” he says slowly, watching cheese form a long string from plate-to-fork. He laughs. “Cheese.” Then he looks at David again. “David?”

David braces. “Yes?”

“They should rename that trail for me.”

“Okay, Patrick, they do that when something tragic happens. Like, Starvation Creek. Avalanche Meadows. The Pit of Bones.”

“Okay but--”

“No buts.”

“The Pit of Bones?” asks Stevie.

“Oh, it’s a real place,” says David. “I watched this documentary--”

“Oh, the documentary Patrick told you not to watch? The one where you ended up sitting in his lap all night?”

“No, Stevie, _that_ was about a haunted asylum--”

“Why do you do these things to yourself?”

He’s about to answer but Patrick tugs on his sleeve. “David. David, I’m running for city chancellor--”

“Councilor.”

“--so I can make it happen.” He gestures as if making a rainbow. “Brewer Canyon.”

“Mhm, so you want the city to rename that trail for you, and put up a plaque that says what? Patrick Brewer almost died here because he didn’t listen to his husband?”

Patrick points at him. “Yes.”

“That sounds like a petty sign _you’d_ put up,” Stevie says to David. “Patrick’s epitaph is just going to be _didn’t listen to his loving husband, David Rose_.”

Patrick giggles. “With one of those...holograms of David’s face on the gravestone--”

David’s phone dings and he looks at it, grateful for the distraction. Then he grimaces, smacking Stevie’s arm. He turns the phone to show her the picture she sent to the group chat; it’s Patrick, giving a thumbs up while she points at his mangled ankle, grinning. She captioned the photo: _he really showed that cliff who’s boss!_

“When did you even take this?”

She shrinks a bit. “When you were getting him food?”

“Ugh!” David snarls. “My God!”

He scrolls through the messages.

_Twyla Sands, 8:43: I think someone deserves free breakfast at the cafe all month :-)_

_Alexis Rose, 8:44: so sweet of you Twy_

_Alexis Rose, 8:44: btw distract me, this date is_ **_so_ ** _boring_

_Ronnie Lee, 8:46: HAHAHA SO MUCH FOR YOUR WINNING STREAK BREWER_

_Jocelyn Schitt, 8:47: Ronnie!! Don’t kick the man when he’s down!_

_Jocelyn Schitt, 8:47: Hang in there, Patrick!_

_Roland Schitt, 8:48: Oh that’s nothing, remember the time I broke my pelvis?_

_Moira Rose, 8:50: Not my dear sweet Pat!!! David, tell me this wasn’t from an ill-starred wilderness misadventure??_

_Moira Rose, 8:51: David you don’t have a nurturing personality!! Don’t be ashamed to hire a nurse! You’ll both be happier!_

_Johnny Rose, 8:51: Relax Moira!_

_Ted Mullens, 8:53: It’s going...tibia okay!_

_Ted Mullens, 8:54: Make sure you get plenty of...ped rest?_

_Ronnie Lee, 8:55: Looks like a sweep for Bob’s Garage. Lmfao._

_Jocelyn Schitt, 8:55: Guess I’ll have to find a new Enjolras for our Spring Musical...sigh_

_Bob Currie, 8:55: Count me in! Sorry Patrick!_

_Moira Rose, 8:56: No Jocelyn! No! Do not listen to Bob! Enjolras does not two ankles need! Patrick is clearly the better choice here, bipedal or not!_

_Twyla Sands, 8:56: Oh hey are you still looking for Eponine??_

_Moira Rose, 8:56: Jocelyn, you must allow me to sit in on the interviews via Skype!_

_Roland Schitt, 8:56: Don’t you know everyone uses Zoom? Get with it Moira_

David looks at Stevie and Patrick, who press together and try not to laugh at his expression. He steals a bite of casserole off Patrick’s plate, chews it, and texts back.

_David Rose, 8:58: Yes, this was_ _from a wilderness misadventure...no, Patrick won’t be auditioning for anything...but Bob as Enjolras would open a portal to hell under city hall so let’s not do that...and Ronnie? Kindly fuck off!_

_Moira Rose, 8:59: It seems you’ve angered Patrick’s protective husband, Ronnie..._

_Ronnie Lee, 8:59: David can kiss my ass_

Patrick nudges David. “Thank Jocelyn for the casserole.”

“No!” sighs David, adding to Stevie, “You need to audition for Eponine before Twyla snaps it up. Though you’re more of a Fantine.”

“What did you _not_ understand about Cabaret being a one-time thing?"

“David?” asks Patrick, pulling on him. “David, you should audition for Enjolras--”

“That’s who _you’re_ auditioning for, Patrick!”

“But I can’t now. And he’s described as _wild_ and _beautiful_ \--”

David holds his hands up. “Okay.” He takes Patrick’s empty plate and Stevie’s wine glass. “You’ve had your fun and _now_ you’re going to bed.”

“What a dad,” says Stevie, disturbed.

***

David shoos Stevie out of their house an hour later. By then, Patrick is sleepy and subdued, drinking some lemon-honey tea with the lights turned low. David is wrapping his ankle with an ACE-bandage, glancing up every few seconds to make sure he isn’t hurting him, and Patrick’s watching him with a slight, hypnotized smile. 

“This seems too tight,” David murmurs.

Patrick shakes his head. “No, it’s perfect, you’re good at this…”

“Doubt that,” says David, but he smiles. He adjusts the bandage and velcros it closed, then looks at Patrick. “How is it?”

He shrugs. “Not great but...better than it was.”

“Mhm. I’m just glad _fun_ Patrick is done for the night.”

Patrick chuckles and glances down, sheepish. “Uh...yeah, not sure what I said.”

“Well, you didn’t talk about having a baby, or moving to County Clare, or getting tattoos of each other’s names, or skydiving, or the other insane things you usually talk about when you’re high. But you _did_ tell Stevie I’m rough in bed and asked her if she thought so too. So.”

“Oh. Yikes. That’s not even accurate.”

“Well.”

“You’re just impatient.”

David eyes him, unconvinced. “Mm.” Then he shifts to sit by him, pulling a first-aid kit off the coffee table. “So now..” He touches a scrape on his forehead. “I’m going to fix all this…” 

“Did I say anything else?” murmurs Patrick.

“You told me to audition for _Les Mis_ ,” says David, “as if anything about this…” He gestures at himself. “...suggests I’m willing to die for a cause.”

“Yeah. You’re definitely one of the guys that gets beheaded after the musical.”

David scoffs, playful. “Wow!”

Patrick grins, snuggling deeper in the blanket, and David chuckles and kisses him. 

“You stopped shivering,” he murmurs.

Patrick nods. “Mm.”

David breathes out, staring at him, then kisses his forehead and stays close. “So are you going to hike by yourself again?”

“Probably, David.”

“Okay, the correct answer was _no_.”

“Oh, I know that, but I’m being realistic. I know you won’t go with me.”

David sighs and leans back, opening the first aid kit. He puts some hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball and dabs at the scrape on Patrick’s cheek.

“You don’t have to do this, David…”

“I want to,” he murmurs.

Patrick doesn’t reply, surprised how sincerely David said this. David glances into his eyes, fighting a smile, then moves to a scrape on his chin. He spends the next few minutes tending to Patrick’s cuts and bruises, then shifts closer, hugging him. He kisses him above his ear, along his brow, on his temple. Then he rests his chin on the top of his head and holds him tight.

“I would tell you I wish this was me, but…”

“No,” says Patrick. “You have a lousy pain tolerance.”

“Imagine the kvetching.”

“Oh, there’s still been plenty of that, David.”

David chuckles and cards his fingers through Patrick’s hair, kissing his temple again. They stay in this embrace for a moment, both quiet. Then Patrick shifts to lay his head in David’s lap and David shores the blanket up around him.

“Staying here,” he mumbles.

“Mhm,” David murmurs, caressing his side.

Patrick takes all of sixty seconds to fall asleep, faintly snoring, and David rolls his eyes. He pulls his phone off the coffee table and starts to research what he’s wanted to all night: _how to hike alone and not die._ This quickly devolves into hiking horror stories -- he avoids those -- and focuses on the gear he could buy Patrick. A satellite phone. A GPS alert. A locator beacon. None of them are foolproof, and every article seems to end with the same advice. _T_ _he best approach is hiking with a friend!_

He stares at the screen, then pulls up Amazon and types in the fateful words: _men’s hiking boots, size 11._ He hopes they come in black.


End file.
